The fire hissed and spat as though it were in heated debate with itself; smoky heat rolling in waves across the tavern. Alistair took hold of the lunch tray, gratified by the weight of it. The barmaid might not have appreciated his gentle rejection of her company, but she had not slighted him in return. The tray bore several dark loaves of rye, an oblong of butter wrapped in cloth, and a wedge of lemon-yellow cheese. On cue, his stomach let out a growl of anticipation; he coughed a fraction too late to muffle it.
Teagan Guerrin smiled, and for a moment the burden of defending his brother's territory seemed to lift.
"Is your appetite still as ferocious as it was when you were a boy?"
"Even more so," Alistair replied, draping the cloth back over the tray and checking that his sword was still fixed to his belt. "But this isn't all for me, believe it or not. There are three others travelling with Flora and I. None of us have had any lunch."
"And you're all Grey Wardens?"
The bann ignored the ensuing ripple of interest that passed through the tavern.
Mac Tir's adaptation of the tragedy at Ostagar had spread swiftly; as had news of his bounty on any surviving Warden's head. Still, Alistair's height and the formidable bulk of his sword-arm dissuaded any challengers.
"No, they're…"
Alistair paused. It sounded like the beginning of a poor attempt at a joke: So, a Witch of the Wild, a lay-sister and a Qunari walk into a tavern.
"... they're not Wardens. Just people who we met on our travels," he finished, lamely. "Who wanted to help us."
Or were coerced, in the case of Morrigan. I don't think she'll ever forgive her mother for leashing her to our cause.
Outside the tavern, the sunlight seemed to have drained from the sky as though someone had pulled a plug. The bann cast a baleful eye upwards; the beginning of a scowl pulling at his mouth.
"It had better not start snowing. That would be all we need. You said your companions were in the Chantry?"
The climate within Ferelden's interior varied from teyrnir to arling; dependent on the lie of the land, proximity to water and the prevailing winds. Much of the Bannorn enjoyed mild and temperate weather, allowing the residents to cultivate its arable land and granting it the nickname of Ferelden's Garden. Yet the sunken basin that held Lake Calenhad did not share the climate of the land surrounding it; the marriage of steep cliffs and a large body of water meant that it possessed a unique system of weather. It had been known to hail over the Lake when the rest of the Bannorn enjoyed lustrous sun; while gale-force winds tore up the crops in the fields overhead, Calenhad's waters sat as flat as glass. The residents liked to blame the mages at Kinloch Hold for the capricious climate; they were a useful scapegoat for any of life's irritants.
Alistair remembered well the unpredictable nature of the local weather. The bann's fears were not unfounded: the sky had a sour and sullen cast to it. Despite the lack of visible sun, Redcliffe seemed drowned in shadow; as though Calenhad had burst its banks and sent water up through the streets. The castle overhead no longer seemed a benevolent protector: it loomed with the menace of an avenging warlord.
They saw few others on their way to the Chantry. The younger villagers passed by with a respectful nod to the bann and a swift, curious glance at Alistair. The older residents, with their venerable memories, paid far more attention to the young Warden. It was not every day that a giant youth with the face of a dead king walked the sloping streets of Redcliffe.
"Most are sleeping," explained Teagan, touching his elbow with a mouth twist of discomfort. "They've been up in arms all night."
Alistair noticed the bann's grimace.
"Are you wounded?"
"A minor cut. My own fault, let the bastards flank me."
The bann dismissed the injury with a grunt as they rounded the corner of a deserted smithy. No smoke drifted from its chimney, no maw of red fire waited within for its offering of iron. The bellows stood breathless in the corner of the yard.
"Bloody smith's drunk himself into a stupor," remarked the bann tersely, pulling his sleeve further down over his arm. "There's armour and weapons that need mending and he won't lift a hammer to help. Says that Redcliffe is doomed. I ought to leave him out as bait. I don't suppose you've any experience at the forge? You've the brawn for it."
"No," Alistair said, regretfully. "There wasn't a smith at the monastery. The Templars used to send their steel away for repairs."
"Shame." A humourless half-smile pulled at Teagan's mouth as he glanced at Alistair. "I still can't imagine you at a monastery. You were a mouthy little sod."
The younger man snorted, though his distracted eye had been caught by a familiar derelict well at the side of the road. A tree sprouted from the ring of ruined stone, its branches stripped by winter. Walking the sloping roads of Redcliffe had revived memories that Alistair had thought lost; like an old painting made vibrant in inches by a restorer's brush.
"I know," he replied, resisting the urge to ask the bann - with deliberate nonchalance - why he had not come to rescue him from the clutches of the Templars. "Flora - my sister-warden - will be able to fix your arm. She's probably finished with the other wounded by now."
As he spoke, the Chantry unfolded before them in its red stone and timber eminence; the sunburst crest thrust upwards on bronze spires.
"Flora" repeated Teagan, vaguely. He was only half-listening; attention caught by a small cluster of dwarves retreating towards the shore of the lake. "Aye, you mentioned the name. I didn't think that women could be Wardens. She's an apothecary? A surgeon?"
"No," replied Alistair. "She's a mage."
The bann let out an startled laugh as they reached the Chantry's arched entrance.
"A mage? Andraste! I hope you've not forgotten the basics of your Templar training."
"She's not a - not a dangerous mage. She's…she's a - "
Alistair was unsure how best to describe his sister-warden. He was aware that Duncan would have known exactly how to name her. After all, their late commander had Rivaini blood, and magic ran through the northern deserts like wind between the dunes. In fact Duncan had named her - qaiqal al-kha - or, spirit healer in the Fereldan tongue. Flora had informed him of this one night in the dormitory tent, her whisper summiting the breastplate that parted them.
Duncan says I'm not limited, she had confided. He says I'm a 'spirit healer'. They have a lot of them in Rivain.
Good for you, he had replied, not understanding, more concerned that his makeshift barrier remained in place.
Alistair was not confident enough to use such arcane terminology in normal conversation. Fortunately, the bann's attention had just been diverted by the inlaid door swinging outwards, held there by a sinewy, slender arm. It was the limb of an archer; the muscle clinging taut and elastic to the bone.
"Alistair, we have much to discuss," said the lay-sister, her fingers restless as though missing the string. "These poor people have been under siege for a week."
"I know," replied Alistair as Bann Teagan smiled; an instinctive, albeit weary, reaction to a fine-looking woman. "This is Teagan Guerrin, the bann- "
" - of Rainesfere," finished Leliana, bowing her head to the allotted degree with a courtier's finesse. "The Maker surely approves of you coming to the aid of your brother's arling."
The light drained from Teagan's face at the mention of his brother: ten more years etched themselves across his brow.
"There's a lot that needs to be said, my lady," he said as they followed Leliana into the Chantry, each word leaden. "I only wish that we had days of peace and quiet to do so. Time is short before the assault begins aga- "
The bann cut himself off abruptly, gazing around the archways of ruddy stone. Sallow sun illuminated empty cloisters and unoccupied bedrolls; a boy scrubbed diligently at the blood caked between the flagstones. Only a lone man remained on his pallet, twisting away from the sudden influx of light and noise.
"Where are the other wounded?"
"My sister-warden is a mender," repeated Alistair, lowering his voice as the cavernous stone bounced his words back at him. "She's fixed them."
"But," the bann objected, staring at Leliana as though she had sprouted a second head. "Tomos had more of his guts outside his belly than within it."
"She's a very good mender," said Alistair, a rush of pride heating his belly like dwarven whiskey. "Very talented. It's what she does."
The irony did not escape him: he had often kept quiet when the crueller of their Warden brethren had mocked Flora for her limitations. He had not - would never have - joined in with their light-hearted scorn, but neither had he spoken up in her defence.
One trick pony, they said. They used to neigh at her when she came into the tent.
They had no idea. It's not a trick that she can perform, it's - it's miraculous.
Leliana, who had been wondering why the bann was staring at her with such focus, came to a sudden realisation.
"I'm not Flora," she explained, her mouth curling. "She went to wash herself off. She was covered in all sorts."
The bard lowered her voice conspiratorially, casting a glance over her shoulder into the interior of the Chantry. Her words were directed towards Alistair, who leaned in to listen.
"Our mender is dawdling because she's in a bad mood," she confided, amused. "The fellow over there won't let her near him. Doesn't want any of her magic."
Teagan fixed his green Guerrin eye on the groaning man, now alone on the pallets.
"Don't be such a fool, Hamunde," he called, the words broken up and returned by the hollowed archways. "Let this mage heal you. We need all the sword-arms we can get tonight."
The man muttered something disrespectful that would - in normal times - have him confined to a pillory in the village square. The younger Guerrin ground his teeth, but managed to stamp down on his temper; returning his attention to Alistair.
"We've lost two dozen already," he said, grimly. "These monsters - creatures - who knows what they are - are relentless. They fight like nothing I've ever seen, and I've had my share of - "
Once again, the words died in the bann's throat; his mouth fixed open in astonishment. He blinked twice in rapid succession, then loosed the air from his lungs in a low, measured exhalation.
"Maker's Breath," Teagan said, an odd tone in the words.
"Two baths in one day," intoned Flora glumly. "It's unnatural. In Herring you get murdered if you take more than one bath a month."
She was clad in her woollen undervest and the shorn-off trousers. Her hair hung in wet and heavy ropes to her waist; the section she had hacked off that morning fully restored.
"Maker's Breath," repeated the bann, astonished. He looked as though his feet had been taken from beneath him by a sudden, sharp current.
"This is my sister-warden, Flora," said Alistair drily, accustomed to the stupefying effect that his companion had on those they met. "Flora, this is Bann Teagan Guerrin, Arl Eamon's brother."
Flora turned her clear eyes on the astonished bann; the fine, sooty eyelashes stuck together like the fronds of a water plant.
"I ain't bathing again 'til SATINALIA," she said, ominously. Then, at a silent screech of reproval from her spirits: "Hello. I'm Flora. I don't have manners."
Teagan took her hand with the smoothness of much practice. He lowered his voice to a more intimate timbre, keeping his eyes fixed on her pale irises.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, mannerless Flora. I wish it were under different circumstances."
But Flora's head was already swivelling away; her fingers trapped but her gaze roaming across to the lone man on the pallet. Alistair, who had always harboured a respect bordering on reverence for the bann, suddenly fought the urge to smack his arm. Annoyed at himself, he averted his eyes as Teagan reluctantly released Flora's palm.
She blinked, then pulled her fingers back and gazed at them closely; as though inspecting the imprint left by his admiring grasp. He smiled at her, Flora looked back up at him.
"I thought I still had a bit of stomach on my hand," she said, solemnly. "But it's alright. I don't."
Leliana decided to interject then; cutting smoothly between them.
"Shall we find somewhere to sit and talk? There is much to discuss."
They retired to the late priestess' office, a large circular chamber connected to the Chantry by a narrow passage. The sun struggled in through high and dusty windows; its light diffused into a muted, underwater bloom. Bookcases were arranged at angles like the spokes of a wheel, their contents spilling onto a red and orange woven rug. A large desk hewn from a single slab of oak stood in the centre of the chamber. It was strewn with the letters and sermons of the dead Chantry Mother; a nearby quill awaited the completion of some unfinished thought.
As they searched for more chairs to encircle the desk, Leliana drew Flora to one side; then darted her finger to a high window.
"Look!" the bard breathed, awe infusing her words. "A flying fish!"
Flora, jaw dropping, craned her neck to see. As she squinted up towards the blurred glass, Leliana's other hand moved in the span of a heartbeat; her blade slicing in swift parallel to the floor.
"I'm not letting you butcher your own hair anymore," she whispered as a startled Flora looked down at the dark red skeins now decorating her boots. "We're in noble company now. You must look presentable ."
"Oh," Flora replied, mildly disappointed that the flying fish appeared to be a ruse. "Alright."
The bard clucked under her breath in a manner more Orlesian than Fereldan; wrestling the rest of Flora's hair into a bow tied at the nape of her neck.
"There. No more cutting it yourself."
Flora put a hand to the back of her head dubiously as she followed Leliana to the central desk, where Teagan and Alistair had managed to scavenge several extra seats. At first, nobody wanted to sit in the ornamental armchair of the dead priestess lest they sit on the lap of a ghost; after a moment of indecision, the bard let out a huff and settled herself on the plush fabric.
Alistair shifted along the bench to make room for his sister-warden. Flora sat next to him, propping her bare elbows on the desk.
"Flora, where's your shirt?" he asked in an undertone, watching her bite at the fresh growth of nail. "You're just in a vest and it's freezing in here."
"My shirt is covered in everything, " she replied through a mouth full of fingers. "I abandoned it. I ain't cold."
In response he touched his thumb to the inside of her wrist, feeling the flesh yield. Sure enough, the skin was smooth and temperate, and even in colour.
"Huh," he said, surprised. "You're right."
Flora smiled at him, simultaneously biting off the final soft growth of fingernail from her other hand. Alistair kept his thumb against her wrist several moments more, feeling the measured throb of her pulse. By now he knew the resting tempo of his sister-warden's heart; could beat it out against his knee from memory if requested. His palm settled on the back of her neck when they slept without hesitation, their fingers wound together, faces inches apart on the same pillow. Their growing intimacy within the shadowy closeness of night had never been discussed in sunlit hours; when the two young Wardens were still shy and almost formal in their exchanges with one another. It was an unusual state of affairs, but so were most things in their post-Ostagar world.
Meanwhile the bann had occupied himself with shifting chairs while he regained some composure. Teagan Guerrin was both perturbed and faintly amused by the lapse in his customary ease. Once he felt reasonably certain that he would not be reduced again to adolescent muteness, he took a seat opposite the two young Wardens; facing them across the dead woman's desk.
"Right," he began, setting aside some unfinished papers and leaning forward. "We've six hours until nightfall, and eight until the next attack. The barricades need to be rebuilt and spent arms replaced. There isn't enough time in the day to do all that needs to be done, nor have we enough men."
"What about the garrison up at the castle?" asked Alistair, recalling troops of armed men practising manoeuvres in high-walled courtyards. "I know that the knights have been sent to search for Arl Eamon's cure, but aren't the other soldiers helping to defend the town?"
Teagan smiled a bitter and humourless response.
"Alistair," he said, resignation weighing down his words. "The attack is coming from the castle."
Leliana inhaled a startled breath. Alistair glanced swiftly sideways at Flora, who blinked back at him with an equal measure of confusion. The castle, perched on its thrusting rocky spur, seemed impenetrable: a stalwart icon of Ferelden defence.
"From the castle," Alistair repeated, after a moment of digestion. "How can that be?"
Teagan shook his head, palms spreading outwards in a gesture of ignorance.
"I don't know. I've tried to get into the keep during the day, but the gates are locked and the doors barred. No one responds to my shouts. The place is as quiet as a tomb."
"And what comes out at sunset?" asked Leliana, softly.
The bann was silent, his fingers tapping out agitated rhythm on an unfinished letter. His face was distant, as though echoes of last night's battle were flailing around the chamber like banshees; the screams of the wounded disturbing papers on the desk and the guttural groans of the dying tangling around the bookshelves.
"The townsfolk call them monsters. But last night, I thought recognised one of them," he said, speaking to no one in particular. "My brother's seneschal Byram always wore a silver belt buckle in the shape of a bull's head. Won it off an Antivan in a game of Fool's Pleasure, years ago, wouldn't shut up about it. Anyway, one of the creatures came at me from behind the tavern. Got me in the shield-arm. I got him back twice as good, of course."
The bann smiled and looked briefly his age; as though the careworn mask had slipped a moment.
"But when it dropped to the ground - for all its strength and rage, it was little more than flesh clinging to the bone - I saw a silver bull's head slung around its waist."
"Our Lady preserve us," murmured Leliana, caressing the symbols at her neck and wrist in swift succession. "The dead are walking. The prophet Nelaros warned of this in the Black Age."
"Well, they aren't walking everywhere," said Alistair shortly, who had no time for ancient augury. "Just here."
Flora, who had hitherto been listening in silence, leaned forward and planted her finger on the desk as though she were crushing a beetle beneath it. In her mind, any discussion about the nature of the assailants was an academic one: at this point it served no practical purpose, and time was of the essence.
"Tonight, we defend this town," she said, and almost named it Lothering. "In the morning, we'll go to the castle and find out what's going on."
Do you wish to be confronted with a legion of corpses?
"Does the castle have a- " the question came to Flora unprompted, as though it had been placed onto her tongue, "- a tunnel?"
"Aye," replied Teagan slowly, his eyes trawling her. "There's a passage from the west dungeon cut into the rock. Comes out beneath the derelict mill."
Alistair's eyebrows rose into his gilded hairline.
"I didn't know that Redcliffe Castle had a tunnel," he said, astonished. "And I lived there for a decade."
"All castles have tunnels," replied Flora without thought or hesitation; then felt a strange ripple pass over her mind, as though a vast and unseen creature had swum just beneath the surface. The words had arrived unprompted, washed up on her tongue like flotsam.
Alistair glanced at Flora from the tail of his eye. He was slowly learning the subtle sea-changes of his sister-warden's sculpted face, and was almost certain that something had just unsettled her, although he had no idea what it might be.
Teagan was also looking at Flora, though the cast of his face was different. The residual admiration was now laced with curiosity, a vague puzzlement in the twist of his mouth.
"Maker, but there's something familiar about you," he said, almost to himself. "You're from the north?"
"Herring," clarified Flora, distilling the bleak and serrated coastline to the part that mattered. "Do you know it?"
The bann, to nobody's surprise, had not been there, nor did he know it.
"Though if they produce women as lovely as you, perhaps I ought to pay them a visit," he added, unable to help himself even in the midst of crisis. "Are you spoken for, my lady?"
Alistair found himself staring hard at an unfinished letter on the desk before him. It was a request to the Chantry Mother in Denerim for additional funds; Redcliffe's supplies of ceremonial incense were running low. He gazed at the dead woman's sloping hand, reading the last word in her unfinished sentence over and over: inadequate.
But Flora did not know what 'spoken for' meant, and so responded only to the first part of the bann's statement.
"Herring produces fish oil by the barrel," she replied, solemnly. "But they don't like visitors."
AN: Ok I'm sorry that I always seem to amputate my chapters in non logical places! I just see them getting too long and then I want to put out an update so I just cut them off XD anyway! I really liked this chapter. Flora never shines in any combat/battle chapters because she's got no offensive ability, she gets no finishing moves, so I love it when her healing magic gets put to good use! She went unappreciated in the Circle because no one ever got seriously injured so there was no need for her to show her abilities, and since she couldn't even light a candle, they dismissed her as someone of very little talent.
I also hope it doesn't annoy people that I change minor details to fit my own needs! Sometimes for really petty reasons, haha. Like Teagan Guerrin has blue eyes in game but I like the way that "green Guerrin eyes" sounds, and I like describing them as the colour of peeled grapes :P also speaking of Teagan, the decade between origins and inquisition was not kind to him haha
Anyway, I loved writing Flora in this chapter. I love that she's such a little weirdo XD Her eccentricity didn't come across as strongly in the original, but I think it's such an important part of her character!
